


Gesichter und Jahreszeiten

by hwbswd



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Berlin (City), F/M, Feeling B - Freeform, Flake Gets Some, Hiddensee, I can't say I don't ship this anymore, I know that's not how dowries work, M/M, Mecklenburg, Nonmonogamous Relationship, almost notfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwbswd/pseuds/hwbswd
Summary: Flake is offered a marriage that will save his family from crushing debt. He has his reservations, but it would let him be in a band, which he desperately wants, and Paul doesn’t seem terrible. While things don’t seem great at first, Paul and Flake do their best to make a go of it. As they get older, they seek love, friends, home, and success through the seasons.Inspired by an observation that Paul and Flake’s early relationship was like an arranged marriage, that Aljoscha told them they were just going to have to get along. And my brain was like, “...but what if literally?”
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	Gesichter und Jahreszeiten

**Author's Note:**

> This has an underage warning, as it has Flake and Paul getting married when Flake is seventeen and Paul is nineteen. They have sex, it’s onscreen. They’re pretty equal in power if that sort of thing makes a difference to you. They’re older in the later chapters.  
> In the Feeling B era, Paul and Flake had several names for the band that was mostly the two of them. Gesichter was one of the names, as far as I can tell they were credited with a single song.

Late in that weird summer after his last year of school but before he’s started his apprenticeship, Flake’s parents call him down. He drops the headphones on the little Casio and finds them at the table, a letter between them, looking somber. He sits. 

“Did - who died?” 

His mom shakes her head. “Flake, honey, we have an offer. It’s a little unusual, but I think it’s worth entertaining.” 

“An offer?” 

“For you, honey.” She says it gently, like it’s going to hurt him.

They hand him the letter, but he doesn’t get much out of it, it’s all ‘request the honor of your consideration,’ and ‘terms enclosed’. He hands it back.

“Me before Daniel? Won’t that be unseemly?” Not that Flake gives a shit, but everyone is always telling him he should. 

“It’s not ideal, but under the circumstances we have to at least look into it.”

“Who is it?”

“Paul Landers.”

He shakes his head. “Never heard of him.”

“He has a patron, Aljoscha Rompe, and the offer properly comes through him.” 

“Rompe, like the ministry guy?” 

“Aljoscha is his son, yes.” 

“Isn’t he, like, forty?” 

“Not - not quite. But he’s the patron. Paul is only eighteen.”

They go to meet Aljoscha and Paul at Aljoscha’s family home. It’s probably the nicest house Flake has ever been in. Flake wore his best button-down shirt and blazer, but none of it fits, nothing has fit since he was eleven, and they haven’t the money to get it tailored. The collar droops off his neck and the sleeves are too short. He tried to comb his hair down. The result is uninspiring. 

Aljoscha is short and balding and looks like not only does he not do laundry, he doesn’t even know what it is. It’s way cooler-looking than it should be. 

Paul’s parents don’t make much of an impression, they’re quiet and proper. 

Paul is freckley and snub-nosed and ponytailed, and dressed like he detoured on his way to a funeral. 

Flake pulls his mom around a corner and whispers, “He looks like a child, mom.” 

“Hush. He’s two years older than you.” 

They go back in. After endless boring polite introductions, Aljoscha asks for a moment alone with Flake. They sit at a table in the front room, Flake’s little cup of tea untouched in front of him. 

“I’m not fucking you,” Flake blurts. 

Aljoscha’s smile is straggle-toothed and a bit greasy, but friendly. “Look, kid, if I wanted you as a piece for myself there are way cheaper ways, believe me. No, here’s how it is. Paul is a passable guitarist. You’re a decent keyboard player.” 

Flake scoffs. “I’m not even a keyfucker. I’m a kid who aspires to be a keyfucker with a lot of practice.”

Aljoscha laughs, like he thinks Flake’s attempt at being shocking is _cute_. “I need a band. I sing, and I write, but if we were a band we could go anywhere.”

“So why all the betrothal shit?” 

Flake can’t tell if Aljoscha’s little smile is actually absent-minded or just supposed to seem that way. “Two patronages would completely wipe out my allowance. If you’re not both under my patronage, then I’m just the debauched fuck destroying your prospects.”

“But if we’re already married then our prospects are already destroyed and you get off free. Nice.” Flake doesn’t try to keep the scorn out of his voice. He supposes he should make an effort to hold his tongue, but for what, so that he can get auctioned off to the lowest bidder?

Amazingly, Aljoscha doesn’t seem to take offense. “Paul’s not a bad match. His family’s in about the same state as yours,” and Flake catches those barbs right between the ribs, “and this way you each get a solid dowry, which is a better offer than anyone else is making, if I’m not mistaken.” Flake grits his teeth. “I’m not going to hang you out to dry, mind, it’s my own dowry I’m splitting to make this offer.” 

Flake looks at him sidelong. “You can do that?” 

“My great-aunt fucked up the terms, it’s not as buttoned-up as it was supposed to be.” He laughs again, like that’s somehow funny. “At least meet Paul.” 

They get parked in the sitting room, like pets that the adults are tired of. Flake sits stiffly on one end of a prim sofa, trying to keep his back straight, looking straight ahead and not at Paul, who sits as far away as possible on the other end of the sofa.

Flake steals a glance at him. He’s almost a head shorter when they both were standing. He’s sprawling on his arm of the couch, trying and failing to look coolly unconcerned. Flake says the first thing that comes into his mind.

“You look like a twelve year old.” 

Paul glares daggers at him. “You look like a stork in a raincoat.” He crosses his arms. “And I’m eighteen.”

“I know.” The conversation, such as it is, falters after that. 

Flake is ready to refuse, to tell his folks that he rejects the whole thing. He won’t talk at all the whole drive home. But it gnaws at him, Daniel has had no offers at all, and the Rompes aren’t an especially wealthy clan but they have the kinds of positions in government that could put thumbs on all kinds of scales. And Magda with two older brothers has almost no prospects unless someone unexpectedly takes a shine to her, the way Aljoscha seems to have taken to Flake. The trend looks increasingly grim for his two littlest siblings. Plus, it’s not like he’d have to marry Aljoscha. 

So when they get home, and his mom says, “Well, honey, what did you think?” instead of telling them all to go to hell, he says, “I want to talk to Paul again.” Which is apparently doing things all out of order, like he’s supposed to have made up his mind already. 

There’s days of phone calls and whispered conversations, and at the end of it they go back to Aljoscha’s family house. The adults have coffee. They put Flake and Paul out in the yard, apparently that’s supervised enough. Everyone seems to be concerned about whether they’re going to keep their virtue intact, when they should be worried about whether they’re going to murder each other. 

They’re dressed casually this time, Flake is wearing two shirts because one of them is long enough in the torso and the other has long enough sleeves. He’s thinking that he’ll perhaps try _not_ leading with a personal remark this time. 

They stand there on the patio in awkward silence, until Flake says, “Do you want to walk?” 

Paul stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Okay.” 

They amble to the end of the yard. It has a little hedge. They stop under a tree.

Flake tries again. “Aljoscha says you play guitar.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Did you bring it?” 

Paul doesn’t answer at first, and instead kicks at the pebbles on the path. He holds a breath, like he’s about to say something, then releases it. Flake at first thought he was smiling, but he realizes it’s a grimace that’s pulling his mouth out. He inhales again, and says, “Why are you here? I mean, why are you talking to me? You must have better options. Don’t you have an apprenticeship lined up? You’re straight out of school, I have nothing, what’s in it for you?”

Flake throws caution to the wind and says before he thinks about it, all in a jumble, “I want to be in a band. I’m crap at everything else. My father inherited the debt. Aljoscha says you’re pretty good. I have four siblings, Magda wants to be a doctor. Daniel’s already working, but there’s no way we can even pay off the interest. My parents don’t want me to know that but I’m not stupid.” He pauses. “You don’t seem terrible.” 

Paul’s grimace becomes harder. He turns his head away and looks up at the tree branches above them. “Same song, different words.” He doesn’t say anything else.

After a long minute, Flake says, “Hey.” 

He waits, but Paul keeps looking away and up. “Hey,” he offers again, “We can refuse. You can keep your patronage, I’m no worse off than before.” 

“I don’t think so.” Paul glances over at him. Flake notices that he looks like his face wants to smile, like that’s its normal expression, and he wears his current pinched look rather foreignly. It makes Flake’s chest hurt a little to realize that, that Paul is so stressed that it’s changing his whole expression. 

“What - what about it don’t you want? Is it the sex?”

Paul’s expression eases, just a little. “I don’t mind that part.”

“Me, neither.” Paul kind of smirks sideways at him, not like he’s making fun of him, more like his face is just going back to its default state. It still makes Flake’s ears warm with embarrassment, but it loosens the feeling in his chest, too. 

“Is it the ‘forsaking all others, ‘til death do you part’ part?”

Paul’s smirk momentarily pulls into a tight smile at the awkwardness of the sentence. “I don’t think anyone expects us to actually care that much.” 

“They don’t?” 

For the first time Paul faces him fully. The look he gives him is the softest Flake’s yet seen out of him, almost a pitying smile. “Really. I think we could do just about anything.” 

Flake sets aside for the moment thinking about precisely what that means. “Then why are you so opposed to it?” 

Paul’s face pinches back up. He huffs out a breath. “I’m not, not really. I just don’t like how obvious it makes it that I’m for sale.” 

The feeling that made Flake’s chest ache is back. “Bargain bin musicians, we are.”

Paul laughs, kind of a mean, harsh laugh. “Discount for buying in bulk.” 

Flake sits, right there on the ground by the little path, with his back against the tree’s trunk and his arms wrapped around his knees. Paul steps back to lean against it next to him. Flake picks at the grass and asks, “Anything horrible about you I should know about?”

Paul pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, sticks one in his mouth, lights it. “I’m critical of everyone. I don’t do nice just for the sake of someone’s feelings when they’re wrong.” He puts his arm down by his side and offers Flake the cigarette. Flake hesitates, then accepts it, takes a drag, hands it back to Paul. Paul asks, “What about you?”

“I’m scared of everything.” 

“Like, everything?” 

“Darkness, sickness, too many people...I find a new one every once in a while.” 

“But you want to be in a band? There’s alway lots of people.” 

“It’s usually all right. I just don’t like being alone in some situations. I like being alone, though. I don’t know.” 

Paul passes him the cigarette again. “That doesn’t really make sense, but it doesn’t sound horrible.” 

Flake suddenly feels very cool, sitting here smoking with Paul. “Is it all right, playing with Aljoscha?” 

“It’s crazy and disorganized and loud, but it’s okay. Sometimes it’s more party than music.” He takes the cigarette back. “You did bring your keyboard?” 

Flake tips his head back against the tree trunk to look up at Paul. He looks wild, like a forest sprite lost in the city. A city sprite, maybe, gracing a garden, smoke streaming from his nose. Flake feels a little burst of overwhelmed elation, like balancing atop a high wall, teetering without falling. “You want to have an audition?” 

Paul glances down at him fiercely and drops the butt, grinding it out under his toe. “Let’s go.” 

They set up in the same prim little sitting room, and Flake gets the impression it’s not the first time somebody has dragged an amp in there. He puts the keyboard on the coffee table and sits on the floor, facing Paul who sits on the sofa. 

Paul says, “You want to pick something to start?” 

“You can go.” Flake figures he might as well start now at learning whatever Paul has been working on. 

Paul starts, buzzy down-tuned bar chords that Flake can tell are predictable for his sake. It’s rough and choppy at first, but he starts to get the hang of playing a simple counterpoint. Paul adds to the progression, Flake follows, and Paul grins at him - not the grimace, not the harsh smile, but a real grin, intent and focused. It pulls Paul’s cheeks into round little hills that almost overtake his eyes. Flake grins back, then blushes and has to look away. Paul laughs, mocking him a bit but mostly sympathetically amused. 

Voice low, Flake says, “Keep playing.” He gets up and goes to the door. It was already almost closed to keep the sound in, but now he latches it. It’s glass, so they’re visible if anyone looks in to check on them, but they should be hard to hear over the instruments. 

He sits back down and resumes his little counterpoint. Once they’ve repeated it enough that he doesn’t have to think about it, he looks back to Paul and says quietly, “We don’t have to believe all the vows and shit, but we could be a team.”

Paul has slipped out of his shoes to sit cross-legged. He chugs along with his simple chord progression. “What are you thinking, like we try to look out for each other?” 

Flake nods, eyes on his own fingers on the keys. “We look out for each other, and try to not be mean to each other, and have as much or as little personal relationship as we want.”

Paul doesn’t say anything, but adds in a new variation on the theme he’s been playing. He signals it well, giving Flake plenty of warning. Once he’s on top of the new pattern Flake fills out his own part, sketching out a bass line and fumbling out the beginning of a melody. Paul gives him a long look that he can’t read before he finally leads them to a close. 

Over the sustain of his last chord he says softly, “That doesn’t sound so bad.” He damps the strings with his left hand, then tucks the pick into the strings. He reaches out across the coffee table. 

Flake shakes his hand, solemnly. 

The wedding is scheduled for two weeks after Flake’s birthday, late that fall. 

* * *

Flake starts his apprenticeship. He’s not very good at it, and it’s hard to focus on it. He gets to go to the band’s practices two times a week as long as he’s back home by nine, and they kind of overshadow everything else in his life. He’s not sure if he _likes_ them, exactly, but they’re so much louder and more colorful that everything else seems pale. 

At the start of every practice he and Paul shake hands. It’s well within the bounds of propriety, but also kind of looks like they’ve never met before. Except that Paul keeps stretching out the handshakes longer and longer, until Alex, their usual drummer, starts winking at them. That doesn’t stop Paul, who starts hamming it up and caressing Flake’s wrist. Flake wishes he wouldn’t, it’s embarrassing. He starts to anticipate it with an odd mixture of dread and desperate hope that it will last longer, that Paul will do more. It’s confusing. 

Everyone else knows the songs they’re playing already, and Aljoscha doesn’t teach him, just tells him to jump in when he can. He joins the singing before he really starts playing, because it’s so crude he figures even he can’t make it worse. Paul is a pretty sharp guitarist, and they have several different drummers and bassists who are all much older than Flake, but the vocals are a complete free-for-all. Whoever feels like singing does, though it’s often more of a semi-synchronized bellowing. Aljoscha tells them to not sing louder than him, but Flake doesn’t think that would even be possible. 

He starts by following the bassist. Paul is too all over the place to follow, he’s making so much of the music happen alone, but the bass part is predictable. Very predictable - they often don’t have the same musicians two weeks in a row, so it has to be easy to pick up. 

He usually has to leave halfway through to make it home by nine. Every time he’s anxious to leave. It’s overwhelming and exhausting and he doesn’t fit in and he can’t not think about what’s coming, and he’s offered way more alcohol than he’s ever had before. Then as soon as he gets home he wishes he could have stayed.

The week of his birthday the weather is cold and damp, it makes him feel lethargic. He’s not expecting much, they already got him a suit (which doesn’t fit) and there’s not a lot left until the dowry comes in, which isn’t until the papers are signed. 

So it’s hardly a surprise when there’s only a very small family party. His school friends have already gone to start apprenticeships and jobs, they couldn’t come anyway. His Oma comes from across town, and begins some secret project with his mom and Magda in the kitchen. He can’t tell what it is, Magda told the littles to keep him out of the kitchen, and they take their duty very seriously. 

They have dinner, for gifts he gets a book from Daniel and some kind of school art project from the littles. Oma tells him to close his eyes while they bring out the cake, but he peeks. It seems heavier than he thinks a cake should be, judging by how Magda carries it. He closes his eyes. The littles squabble about lighting the candles until Daniel takes the matches away and does it himself. 

When Flake opens his eyes, at first he can’t see past the dazzle of the flames. But the cake looks...reddish. And bumpy, and kind of shiny. He blows out the candles, and they turn the lights back on. It’s entirely covered in berries. Strawberries, raspberries, cherries...he almost can’t make sense out of it. Fresh fruit in November is _expensive_ , anything but apples has to be shipped in. He loves summer fruit, but they never get it out of season. 

He looks a question at his parents. His mom has that smile that pulls her mouth both up and down that means she’s getting sniffly. She shakes her head, and points at Oma. 

“Oh, don’t look at me, it was all of us,” Oma says, patting his hand. “Just a little send-off to remember us by.” 

“But I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I’ll even be in the same neighborhood still.” 

“You won’t be _here_ , though,” says Magda. “You won’t live here.” 

“Our dear chickie, fledged and flown,” says Oma. 

“Oh, mom, stop,” says Flake’s mom. “Before I embarrass myself. Let’s have cake.” 

The cake tastes like summers of years ago, spent at home. 

  
  


Two days before the wedding Flake and Paul go back to Aljoscha’s family home to sign the contracts. 

“Legally, none of this holds any water,” he tells them. “The dowries are a gift from a generous benefactor. In practice, I want seven years of your best efforts with the band. The dowries will be split, half up front, half in six yearly installments. I can do that because Flake is underage. It would be difficult to completely stop the installments, but possible if I was sufficiently motivated.

“As long as you show up to practice and don’t cause problems, I’m happy. You put the music first. Work enough outside of regular practices to improve. Get along with each other well enough that I don’t know about any of it. Otherwise your time is your own.” 

They’re going to live in Aljoscha’s spare flat. He’ll charge them a fair rent, he says. Paul is already living there, under Aljoscha’s patronage. Their families are going to parcel out a fraction of the dowry to them with each installment. He has a hard time engaging with the specifics, it seems like they all want to talk numbers and stipulations, and not what any of it really means.

They make it through the wedding somehow. Flake’s stupid suit still doesn’t fit, the shirt is way too long unless it’s tucked in, and even then it almost reaches his knees. The whole event is a whirl of bright lights and loud chatter and words that Flake knows are coming out of him but that seem distant and intangible. He’s just irritated by the end of it, so many stupid irrelevant little performances that he doesn’t really want to give.

Installed in Aljoscha’s stupid spare flat, which is full of Paul’s stupid stuff, they sit on the bed. 

Flake glances at Paul, sitting beside him an arm’s length away. “Please tell me you have a clue how to do this.” 

Paul looks like the ringbearer for his own wedding. “Totally. I have loads of experience.” 

“You’re a terrible liar.” 

“Really, I’ve got this.”

Flake flops down to lay on his back. “You’re a terrible liar and we’re both doomed.”

“Okay, fine. I had a girlfriend for about a month until my stepdad found out. That was last year.”

“Better than me,” Flake says gloomily. 

Paul looks kind of lost. Then he brightens. “We could start with kissing and go from there. I’m pretty sure I’ve got that down.”

Flake shrugs. He’s brushed his teeth about eight times today in anticipation of this. “If you like.” He doesn’t look at Paul. If he can’t stay irked he’s going to get anxious. 

“I won’t do anything you don’t want.” 

Flake glares up at him. “Oh yeah? Well, I won’t do anything _you_ don’t want, mister ‘I’ve got loads of experience’.” 

Paul puts his hands up. “Fine, jeez, just trying to make you less nervous.” 

“I’m not nervous!” 

“Let’s go, then!” Paul dives for him, smacking their foreheads together and knocking Flake’s glasses askew. 

“Ow!” Flake wiggles away and pushes his glasses back. He rubs his forehead. “I thought you knew what you were doing!” 

“Elise didn’t thrash around so much!” Paul sits back up and wipes his hands down his face. “Okay. Can you, maybe, take your glasses off? And then let’s try going really slow.” 

Flake takes a deep breath. He nods, and puts his glasses on the table. He lays back down on his side, the right way this time instead of sideways. The suit is probably getting crushed, but he doesn’t really care. Paul gingerly lays next to him. 

They have a couple awkward starts, but it gets better when Flake holds Paul’s head in his hands. Then he can stop Paul from lunging at him, and can control the angle. Paul tastes tart from the champagne they had at dinner. His lips are a little chapped. Once they stop running into each others’ noses, it’s actually pretty nice. For a while. 

“Too much tongue, Paul.” Flake is surprised at how his own voice sounds, kind of deep and husky. 

“Sorry.” Paul rubs his thumb under Flake’s lower lip where he slobbered on him. “Can I take your tie off?” 

Flake sits back up. “I hate that tie, it’s incredibly ugly.” 

Paul wrinkles his brow. “It seems fine to me.” 

“I thought you wanted to take it off.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” Paul loosens it and pulls it over Flake’s head. “And your jacket?” 

“I hate it, too.” 

Paul giggles, and Flake thinks he might be starting to see the appeal. While he’s sitting up to get out of his jacket he thinks he might as well take Paul’s jacket off as well. 

“Tie, also?” Paul asks.

“No, leave it so I can strangle you if you’re annoying.” 

“I’m always annoying,” Paul says.

“Oh well,” Flake shrugs, and starts to pull Paul’s tie off. Paul laughs. 

They’re back to sitting side by side on the bed, now in shirtsleeves. 

“Are you hard?” Paul asks. 

Flake wishes that didn’t make him blush, but he can feel it all down his neck. “Yeah.” 

“Me too.” Paul winds an arm around him. “Can I kiss you again? I liked that.” 

“Just no giraffe kissing.”

“Giraffe?” 

“You know how giraffes eat? They stick their tongues out and wrap them around stuff.” 

“Got it.” 

Paul leans in slowly, eyes open and lips puckered. Flake pulls back. “Close your eyes, it’s weird otherwise.”

“Okay.” Paul does. He leans in again. Flake closes his own eyes, it wouldn't be fair if he didn’t. He has to angle down a little but it’s easy to pull away if Paul starts lunging or getting all giraffy. He doesn't, though, after a minute, like he’s getting better at it. 

Flake puts his hands on Paul’s waist. He’d had them awkwardly in his lap before. After a minute he starts creeping one lower, down the front of Paul’s trousers. He just kind of sets it in his crotch, not quite sure he’s brave enough to do more. Paul tenses. 

“Is this okay?” Flake asks.

“Yeah, it’s good, it’s just kind of a lot.” They sit a minute. Flake is starting to want to get this over with. A minute more, and Paul spreads his knees. He puts his hand over Flake’s and presses it down. 

Flake rubs. “Can I take these off?” He asks, and then has to swallow his heartbeat. 

“Only if I can take yours off, too.”

“Okay.” He fumbles with the button. 

Paul tries to get Flake’s underwear down with his trousers, but is blocked by his tucked-in shirt. Flake rolls his eyes, then stands and kicks off the trousers and drops his underwear underneath the shirt. 

“That shirt is enormous,” Paul gawps. “It’s like a dress. You could put two of you in there.”

“Probably more like three, realistically.” Flake undoes the top buttons and pulls it off over his head, because what the hell, leaving just his undershirt. It’s ancient, so it fits closely but it’s way too short. That means his dick is entirely out, which he supposes is the point. Paul is still sitting on the edge of the bed, and he pulls Flake in by the hips.

“You’re right, at least three. God you’re skinny.” He pushes the undershirt up and puts his mouth on the top of Flake’s belly, and it’s going to be a race to see if Flake dies of embarrassment or lust first. Since it’s going to be one or the other Flake unbuttons Paul’s shirt and pulls it up out of his open trousers, then over his head. 

Paul goes back to his belly, and Flake strokes his hands down the sides of Paul’s neck and onto his shoulders. He’s more freckled there than on his face. Paul mooshes his whole face onto Flake’s middle. Flake isn’t sure whether it would be good or not to have his cock land on Paul’s chest, but that’s where it’s going if he doesn’t back up. He leans his hips away.

“You said I could take your trousers off.” 

Paul unsticks his face from Flake. “I did, that is true.” He stands, and Flake succeeds in catching the waistband of his underwear with his thumbs and pulling the whole mess down together. He’s got it about to Paul’s knees before he realizes that his face is practically on Paul’s enthusiastically erect junk, and he kind of loses his nerve. 

He thumps back onto the bed, and Paul straggles out of his clothes on his own. Apparently Paul is also one of those people who blushes extravagantly, he’s got a weird blotch down his jaw. 

“Can we lay down together?” Flake asks, and is amazed that he gets the whole sentence out. Paul seems to have given up completely at acting like he has a clue, now, and just nods. 

They get under the blanket. Flake is glad he’s still wearing his undershirt, it makes the sensation of Paul’s chest against his own less intense. He drapes an arm over him and kisses him. For a while they just kiss, face to face, lying on their sides. Flake tries to lay still, he’s not sure what he’s touching down there. Definitely legs. Probably more. 

Then Flake jerks his hips slightly, and Paul reaches down and puts Flake’s cock between his thighs. He closes his legs and whispers, “Go on,” which is good because Flake’s not sure he can stop himself, Paul’s thighs are impossibly smooth and he’s already smeared precome all over him. 

He kind of pokes Paul’s ass when he thrusts the first time, and says, “Sorry.” 

Paul tugs on Flake’s hip. “Seriously, do it.” And then he goes back to kissing Flake, and actually this is working really well for him. He can’t avoid poking Paul’s ass, but instead if he gets the angle right he can drag the head of his cock up and down it, and Paul apparently doesn’t mind. 

Paul leans back and pushes his hand between them to grab his own cock, and Flake says, “I don’t think that counts.”

“What, you know all the rules now? I’m pretty sure it does.” 

“Nope, better let me do it,” so Flake wraps his hand around Paul’s cock. He’s surprised at how warm it is. He knows how his own feels, of course, but he doesn’t usually sandwich it between two people. He strokes it carefully, sliding the soft skin up to gather at the head and then back down, and Paul makes such an unabashedly pleased noise that Flake does it again, and then starts jerking Paul off for real, knuckles jabbing both of them. Paul puffs his cheeks out and tips his head back while his breathing goes ragged, and then comes all over Flake’s hand. 

“Ew,” Flake manages to choke out, before he grabs Paul’s hip and holds him tight to himself while he comes in three huge surges. 

The flat is tiny. It has three doors - front, bathroom, and balcony. The one room is about half bed, plus a sagging recliner, a miniscule table with two chairs, and a decrepit little couch, which is the border of the kitchen corner. The balcony is so narrow it feels like standing on a windowsill, he checked. Flake’s bags are stacked on the couch where he put them last night. 

“Where do I put my stuff?” Flake asks. 

“I’ve been just throwing mine over there.” Paul indicates the heap along the wall next to the bed.

“But what about me?” 

“Same thing?”

Flake shakes his head. He’s starting to feel lost, with the morning light showing how small and grubby the place is. He’s put his enormous shirt back on just to have something. He pokes at Paul’s pile, then tries to shove some of it over.

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t do that!” 

“So where here is mine?” His heart is starting to pound and he’s got a lump in his throat. 

“I dunno,” Paul says sharply, “I live here!” 

“But I do, too!” Flake’s voice crackles. “You can’t have all of it! And there’s nowhere for me.” 

He sits back on the bed, where Paul is sitting up with the blankets wrapped around his waist. There’s not even any _blanket_ for Flake, and now he’s really going to cry, hot and humiliating. He scrubs at his eyes. 

“Stop!” Paul says, but even as agitated as Flake is, he can hear that Paul sounds desperate rather than angry. 

Flake bites his lip hard enough to hurt. “I don’t live anywhere.” Paul tries to put his hand on Flake’s, but Flake jerks away. “I shouldn’t be here, but there’s nowhere else I can be, now.” 

Paul wipes his hands down his face. “Do you want coffee?”

“What?” He looks over at Paul, blinking in teary confusion.

“I’ll make you coffee, come on.” Paul unwraps the blankets and scoots off the bed, not even trying to cover himself up. He pads to the kitchen corner and Flake can’t help but stare at how his back has little dimples at the base of his spine. He wraps the blanket around himself over the dress-like shirt and shuffles the few steps to the table. 

Paul rummages out bread rolls and cheese. He puts them on the table, and wow, he is really naked. Once it’s brewed he hands Flake a mug of coffee, black. The heat of it is soothing. Paul sits in the other chair. Flake eats some bread and cheese and drinks his coffee and the lump in his throat goes down, some. Paul brings his own mug and sits in the other chair.

“We could put stuff under the bed,” he says. “In boxes, maybe.” Flake looks across the table at his bare chest.

“Okay.” 

“Is that okay?” Paul tucks his fingers into Flake’s hand, the one in his lap, and presses his warm palm onto the back of Flake’s knuckles.

“Yeah.” Flake squeezes Paul’s fingers. “Did you know you have dimples on your butt?” 

“No,” Paul laughs. It makes his eyes squint almost closed. “What?” 

So after he finishes his coffee Flake has to show him, and they end up back in bed. Flake takes the undershirt off. 

* * *

Flake now gets to stay for the whole length of practices. They seem to end whenever Aljoscha wants them to, which sometimes is early and sometimes is well after they’ve stopped being productive. Occasionally it’s when Aljoscha is too drunk to stay conscious. The first time that happens it freaks Flake out, but Paul and Alex don’t seem perturbed. 

“Now what do we do?” 

Alex shrugs. “Try to put him on his side. If he fights, he’s probably fine wherever.” 

Paul shoves Aljoscha’s shoulder, and he topples sideways on the couch. They’re none of them anywhere close to sober. Alex pulls on a handful of his shirt until Aljoscha’s head is resting mostly on his arm. “Good enough. I’m out of here.” 

When they do get things done in practice Flake keeps following the bass parts. Sometimes they don’t have a bassist at all, and Flake starts taking over. He can technically play a bass, though not well or anything, but with the keyboard it’s easy enough to cover the low parts with his left hand. With trepidation, he starts messing around in between the verses, just adding little snips of tunes he’s worked out at home. Aljoscha mostly ignores his contributions, and Paul mostly criticizes them. Sometimes he thinks Paul is right, and then he follows his suggestions. 

He sees what Paul means about how he doesn’t make nice. He argues with everyone, but Flake notices it comes in two flavors. The first is sort of like he’s making conversation, where he’s totally immersed in the details and just has very strong opinions. The second shows up when he thinks someone isn’t taking him seriously. When that happens, he digs in his heels and turns belligerent and there’s no hope for things going well the rest of that practice. 

He starts to understand how he might fit with the others. Paul is tuned so low sometimes that he’s almost taking care of the bass parts himself. As erratic as Aljoscha seems, he actually has a good sense for keeping a song on track - Paul is prone to rushing, but Aljoscha is rock steady in his meandering way. Alex is never fancy and never fussy. Flake realizes that most of the time there’s nobody playing in the higher registers, except for the occasional guitar solo, and if he can figure out what belongs there it’s all his. 

* * *

Their first spring in Berlin, Flake gets a cough that doesn’t get better. It wakes him up some nights. One night when it’s really bad, he coughs until he throws up. 

He sits on the bathroom floor, head on the toilet seat because he isn’t sure he should move yet, hoping he’d not going to start coughing again. 

“That’s disgusting,” Paul says. 

“Fuck off,” Flake whispers. 

Instead Paul gets him to lift his head enough to put a clean towel under it, so at least he’s not entirely on the toilet. Then the coughing starts again, and all he can do is hope his ribs stop hurting when he’s done. 

When he throws up again, Paul says, “I’m calling Aljoscha.” 

“It’s three in the morning.” 

“That’s why I’m calling Aljoscha, I know he’ll be awake.”

An interminable period of misery later, Paul comes back in. “He wants to know if you’re turning blue.” Flake closes his eyes again and hopes Paul can figure it out without him. 

Another eon of woe, and Paul returns. “Aljoscha says I should get you drunk.”

“That’s his solution to everything.” 

“Yeah, but I think he’s right this time. Can you get to the couch?” 

As long as he keeps his breathing shallow, Flake thinks he can keep the coughing under control for the moment. Paul puts the kettle on and sloshes vodka into a mug. “Start with that.” 

“Give me a chaser.” 

“Beer?”

“Okay.” Flake gulps his vodka and suppresses the fumes with a swallow of beer from the bottle Paul opened. “Ugh.” 

The kettle boils, Paul takes the mug back and mixes something. 

Flake sniffs it suspiciously. “What is it?” 

“Hot toddy. Drink it.” 

“We don’t have brandy.”

“I used vodka. I put in a shitload of sugar, though.” Paul sits beside him on the couch. 

“Isn’t it supposed to be honey?” 

“We don’t have that either. Look, it has to be hot, and the alternative is hot beer. Guessing you don’t want that.” 

Flake sips it. “Ugh.”

“Ingrate.” Paul takes the beer from the table for himself. 

Flake works one of the couch cushions around so he can halfway lay down. He pulls his legs up onto the couch between them. Partway through the hot toddy he has another coughing fit, but it’s not as bad. Maybe the alcohol is helping. 

“This is stupid,” Flake mutters when he can breathe again, by which he means ‘I’m scared and I want my mom,’ though he’d never admit it. 

“We’re going to the hospital in the morning,” Paul says. He rubs Flake’s ankle tentatively. 

“Is Aljoscha driving?”

“Yeah.”

“Christ.” 

When Flake wakes sun is streaming through the gap in the curtains. Paul must have taken the blanket from the bed, it’s tucked up to Flake’s chin. Paul is under it too, sleeping plastered back against the cushions with Flake’s legs across his lap and drooling. 

Aljoscha’s idea of ‘in the morning’ is most people’s afternoon. And then they have to roll up to the hospital in Aljoscha’s van/truck/camper thing. Paul is Flake’s next of kin, which he’d known but it hadn’t really sunk in until doctors wanted to talk to both of them. It turns out he has pneumonia, which, no shit. 

Paul has to go to work, it’s a BS job but he still has to go. Aljoscha buggers off to wherever he goes most of the time. 

His parents come. His mom smooths his hair and says, “How are you... _doing_ , honey?” in that way that implies it can’t be good. 

He rolls his eyes and dodges her hand and says, “I’m fine, mom,” and decides that now that it’s not dark and he’s not going to lose a lung that he didn’t actually want her there after all. 

“How is everyone?” He asks. 

His parents glance at each other like they’re deciding how much to tell him. “Magda is going to the Academy next year. If she likes it we’ll send the other two once they’re old enough.” There was no way they could afford the Academy last year, when Magda had desperately wanted to go. 

Magda visits him after school. He sits up against the pillows and draws his knees up. She ignores the chair and sits on the bed, on his feet. 

“Daniel is walking out with the Zimmerman girl,” she says, conspiratorially, resting her chin on his raised knees. 

“Rosa?”

“No, Lila. Rosa married a few months ago.” A few months ago they didn’t even merit an invitation, now Lila is walking out with Daniel. She’s the youngest, so not as much of a catch as the older sisters, but still way out of their league before. 

“Mom didn’t tell me.” 

“They expect an offer. He’s actually happy, the jerk.” Flake laughs. 

“Why didn’t mom tell me?” 

Then Flake gets it in a flash. They feel guilty, like they sacrificed him and now are ashamed to tell him they’re doing well because of him. “Oh. Will you try to convince mom I’m actually fine?”

“Are you?” 

“The music is the best thing I’ve ever heard. I’ll have to work hard to be good enough for it, but I think there could be a place for me.” 

She nods. Magda always understood best. “And you’re getting laid?”

“Stupendously.”

“Sick.”

“You asked.”

* * *

Their first summer at Hiddensee, Flake can’t believe how easy it is. Trying to travel usually is a nightmare, with passes and bribes and delays. In Aljoscha’s touring contraption, though, they just say, “We’re the band,” and off they go. 

Paul grows all the facial hair he can, which is a wispy moustache and soft scruff under his jaw. Paul thinks it makes him look older, Flake thinks it makes him look like an elf. Aljoscha says he looks like he has pubes on his face, but what does he know. 

Alex meets them there after a few days. They make earrings with wire that Aljoscha smuggles from somewhere, and compete over who can sell the pair that looks most like dicks. 

Flake is nervous before their first show, he has no idea what to expect. Well, he has some idea, but it’s not reassuring. They set up in the park, and Flake tries to not have to talk. They poach electricity from a loose lamppost. Flake doesn’t know anything about electricity, but it seems like they’re using a lot. There’s not much of an audience before they start, just a few tourists. 

Paul tries to ask him something, but he’s too nervous, he can’t answer.

Then they start, and it’s complete chaos. Which actually makes Flake relax, it feels like a normal practice. Until they blow a fuse and the whole park goes dark and the cops come to break it up, and Paul and Alex get arrested and Flake and Aljoscha make a run for it, Flake with his keyboard under one arm and Paul’s guitar under the other. Aljoscha seems unfazed. 

Flake has a terribly anxious night, and they go pick them up in the morning. He makes sure it’s actually morning, and not Aljoscha-morning. 

He lets Aljoscha do all the talking at the station. There’s no fine or anything, which is amazing, maybe it’s because of Aljoscha’s connections. 

They do have to vouch for their people, and Flake can barely force words out of his throat. Unfortunately for him they started with “What is your name?” which is a specifically difficult one for him. He ends up just pointing to his papers. 

They move on to, “What is your relation to this man?” which is slightly more possible, but ‘mein’ and ‘Mann’ are almost the same as each other but not quite, and it’s a struggle. 

“Son, did you say he’s your husband?” 

Flake nods. 

The cop turns to Paul. “Son, is this your husband?” 

Paul has obviously been biting his tongue. “Yes!”

The cop mutters something that sounds like, “Jesus Christ,” but they let them go. 

They walk in the sun back to the van, Aljoscha and Alex are going to the beach. 

Paul takes his hand. “How did I not know your stutter was that bad?”

“It’s only when I’m nervous.” 

“Not much makes you nervous, huh?”

Flake shrugs. 

* * *

Their first fall in Berlin, Flake stares at the blurry ceiling from their tatty recliner. He’s roughly ninety percent sure that Paul has discovered how to suck his brains out through his dick. Now he’s rinsing his mouth. Flake doesn’t mind the taste, but he’s pretty sure he’s never sucked out brains, so maybe that’s the difference. 

Naked, slightly-built and luminous in the afternoon glow, Paul comes out of the bathroom and straddles his lap. The added weight makes the recliner sit up, almost bonking their heads together. 

“Promise me,” Paul says. 

Still trying to get his heart rate under control, Flake strokes his thumb down Paul’s beautifully delicate neck. “Promise you what?” 

Paul reaches to grab the cigarettes from the couch, taps one out, puts it between his lips, lights it. He puts the pack back and tips his head to blow smoke upwards. 

“That you’ll never say no to anything because of me.”

“Be serious.” 

“I’m always serious. When some stunner asks you home after a gig, never say, ‘my husband’. Say yes. When that stunner invites you to join their hot band, never say ‘my band’, say yes. When they say they can’t live without you, especially then don’t say ‘I’m married’. Say yes. We didn’t pick each other, but the hell am I going to be the anchor holding you back.” 

Flake pinches the cigarette from Paul’s fingers and sucks in a drag. “Promise me, too, then. When the fancy-pants institute a million miles away offers you a job, say yes. When the gorgeous visiting professor invites you to come with them to their beautiful country, say yes. When they ask you to stay forever, say yes.” 

Paul takes the cigarette back. “And if you nail a different hottie every night for the rest of our lives, I don’t care. Do it in our bed.”

Flake pulls Paul’s hand to him. Paul turns his palm out and puts the dwindling cigarette into Flake’s lips. His fingers brush Flake’s mouth. Around it, Flake says, “Just make sure they’re hot. You’ve had to settle once, never do it again.” 

Paul says, “You know I’ve got no complaints there,” and takes the cigarette back out of Flake’s mouth so he can kiss him again until they’re breathless. 

* * *

Their second winter in Berlin, Flake’s brother Daniel gets married. Flake, Paul, and Aljoscha go to the wedding together. Aljoscha is clearly a hazard, but it’s not like they can not invite him since he’s the reason it’s possible at all. He’s like a starling among robins, too loud and exuberant and with weird clothes. Flake and Paul wear the suits from their own wedding, they don’t have many options. Paul’s looks fine, Flake’s doesn’t look any better than it ever did. 

Aljoscha dances with everyone, which makes it worth coming all on its own. He makes Flake’s mum giggle and his dad blush and Magda bounce around for an hour after. The littles sneak him wine until Flake tells them to knock it off. He’s an enormous hit with the aunts and uncles. He polkas with the officiant. 

Lila, who Flake barely knows, sits with him while Aljoscha does a sort of deranged waltz with Daniel. “I’m exhausted just watching him,” she laughs. 

“The trick is to not watch him too hard,” Flake says. “Just keep track of where he is out of the corner of your eye.” 

Aljoscha trades Daniel for Paul, and Daniel sits on Flake’s other side and cuffs him fondly on the shoulder. Aljoscha and Paul are doing something that involves wildly jumping, they’ve cleared a swath around them. They’re alternating lifting each other to boost the jumps, Aljoscha’s hardly any bigger than Paul. 

“How’s things with being a musician, now?” Daniel asks.

Flake shrugs. “It’s all right.” It’s better than all right, but he’s not sure Daniel would understand as easily as Magda.

“How’s things with Paul?”

“It’s all right.” 

“Even though he’s…” Daniel waves his hands at the whole Paul-thing going on on the dance floor. 

“He looks less like a twelve year old with his clothes off,” Flake says, because he’s thought it to himself, and then discovers that you can’t actually die from putting your foot in your mouth, as much as you might want to.


End file.
